


Silver-Tongue

by umbralillium



Series: Witcher Regency AU [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22524835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbralillium/pseuds/umbralillium
Summary: Geralt returns from a ride to meet Ciri's new music tutor, Jaskier Pankratz.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vesemir/Visenna
Series: Witcher Regency AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621684
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2020





	Silver-Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, I've never written Witcher fic before and I had to go and toss in an AU as well. I know it's not obvious from the story, but this intended to be set during the Regency Era. I wrote this for the February Ficlet Challenge 2020 on Tumblr. An hour or so late for February 1st, but I got it done!

Geralt rode into the stables of Kaer Morhen Manor, waving away the stablehand that came to help. “I’ve got her,” he said, slinging his right leg off Roach’s back and onto the ground. He grimaced slightly as the scar tissue just above his left knee pulled. Six months since he was wounded. Fifteen years ago, he would have been back on the battlefield.

He growled quietly to himself as he led Roach into her stall and started removing her tack. Fifteen years ago, he wasn’t two days shy of his fiftieth birthday, either. Fifteen years ago, he didn’t have an orphaned goddaughter to worry about.

A faint, sad smile tugged at his mouth as he thought of Cirilla, or Ciri as she preferred to be called. It had been a hard few months on the girl. Her parents lost at sea when she was just a babe, raised by her grandmother, Queen Calanthe, until the revolution. Calanthe had led the Crown’s Guard into battle, her husband by her side, as always. Eist had fallen and Calanthe had fallen into an almost berserker rage. According to the few survivors, she’d taken out ten enemy soldiers all on her own before taking a wound to her stomach.

Her officers had gotten her back to the capital and the palace only an hour ahead of the revolutionaries. Enough time to send Ciri off with her personal guard, Laszlo, and tutor, Mousesack. Laszlo had fallen in their escape, giving Mousesack and Ciri time to get clear of the city and into the surrounding woods.

Geralt twisted to retrieve a brush from the bench outside Roach’s stall and grunted against gritted teeth as a bolt of pain shot up from his knee to his hip. He grabbed onto the doorway of the stall to keep from falling if his knee decided to give out on him.

“My lord?” Dara, the stableboy, asked hesitantly.

“I’m not a lord,” Geralt growled, having lost count of how many times he’d said those words since arriving at home. When Dara stepped back, fear flashing in his dark eyes, Geralt sighed. “Could you finish taking care of Roach? I’ve just taken her tack off.”

“Aye, sir.” Dara bobbed a short bow and grabbed the bucket of brushes and combs, before darting into the stall.

Geralt shook his head, graying hair brushing along his coat, and petted Roach’s nose for a moment before leaving the stall.

On his way past, Ciri’s horse, Goldencheeks, stretched out and nipped at Geralt’s coat sleeve. Huffing a quiet laugh, he reached into a pocket and took out a piece of carrot, holding it out to her on his palm. “Don’t tell anyone,” he confided quietly, cutting a quick look at Dara peeking out of Roach’s stall who darted back in. Humming shortly, Geralt continued out of the stable.

On his way to the house, he passed the open window of the music room and stopped as the sound of the pianoforte and singing reached his ears. He barely recognized Ciri’s voice. In the month and half since she’d come to Kaer Morhen, she’d hardly said a word. Geralt’s mother, Visenna, had mentioned hiring a music tutor for her and Geralt had given her leave to hire whomever she deemed worthy of Ciri’s time and the Rivia family money.

Peeking through the window, Geralt saw Ciri seated at the pianoforte, a tall, dark-haired man standing beside her, watching her and harmonizing with her.

_“Toss a coin to your witcher,_

_Oh valley of plenty,_

_Oh valley of plenty, oh,_

_Toss a coin to your witcher,_

_Oh valley of plenty”_

Geralt watched, enchanted as the pair continued to sing, their voices blending as if they’d been singing together for years. Suddenly, the man looked up and Geralt ducked back against the wall and quickly made his way into the manor through the kitchen.

“Wipe yer boots!” the cook scolded as soon as she spotted him.

Geralt obediently stepped back and scraped off the soles of his boots before stepping back into the kitchen to face Triss. Eyeing his boots again, she finally nodded towards a tray bearing a plate of sweetbreads, a pitcher of apple juice, and three glasses, resting on the long worktable. “Take that into the music room, Master Geralt,” she ordered. “Those two’ve been at it since not long after ye left without anything to eat.”

A pair of kitchenmaids paused in their work, staring aghast at Triss for ordering their Lord’s son about so.

“Yes, Triss,” Geralt said, scowling for the maids’ benefit. He’d learned years ago not to cross the woman in charge of his food. Taking the tray, Geralt followed the faint strains of music that he noticed had been silent for a couple moment and had started again while he was in the kitchen.

As he passed the library, a voice called out to him. “Geralt?”

Geralt paused and backed up a few steps. “Father?”

Vesemir stood from his chair by the window and came to the doorway. “I see you passed through the kitchen on your way in,” he commented, reaching for one of the sweetbreads.

Geralt twisted away, grimacing as his knee sent up another complaint. “These are for Ciri and her tutor,” he protested, his voice even more gravelly than usual from the pain.

Vesemir watched him with concern and empathy. “Best get them fed, then,” he said quietly.

Humming softly in agreement, Geralt limped his way to the music room. The door was closed, so he balanced the tray on one hand as he opened the door. The door swung open, revealing the pair at the pianoforte. Ciri gave him a rare smile when she spotted him, which quickly melted into concern when she noticed the limp he couldn’t quite quell. She practically jumped up from the bench and hurried over to his side. “Uncle Geralt, you should be resting after such a long ride,” she scolded quietly, reaching for the tray.

“I’m not an invalid, Ciri, I can manage a tray,” he grumbled, lifting the tray out of her reach.

Ciri perched her fists on her hips and glared up at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Geralt replied, moving around her to set the tray on one of the tables, ringed on three sides by a set of chairs. “Triss says you haven’t eaten since just after breakfast. Come rest your voice and your fingers.”

He turned to look at Ciri and her tutor, but his boot caught on the edge of a rug. His right knee buckled. His left certainly wasn’t up to the task of holding his weight and he started to fall. Before he could hit the floor, a pair of strong arms caught him. He looked up into a pair of smiling gray eyes. “I’ve had people fall at my feet before, but never quite so literally.”

Geralt grimaced and straightened, settling his weight mostly on his right leg, his left now fairly screaming at him. “Thank you, uh…” he trailed off, waiting an introduction.

“Jaskier Pankratz.” The man swept an elaborate bow. “Very much at your service, Sir Geralt Rivia.”

“I’m not a knight,” Geralt objected, sitting heavily in one of the chairs. He smiled gratefully when Ciri set down a footstool at his feet. He let his fondness broaden the smile.

“Not what I hear from Ciri,” Jaskier rebutted, waiting until Ciri was seated before taking the last chair himself, across the table from Geralt.

“Jaskier was my music tutor at… at Cintra,” Ciri explained, stumbling slightly over the name of her former home. She looked down at the sweetbread she’d taken and had started to pick apart.

“I’m surprised Mother was able to find you, as far north as we are,” Geralt commented, watching Jaskier pour glasses of juice for all of them.

“Queen Calanthe had dismissed me long before the revolution,” Jaskier replied.

“Why?” Geralt found himself asking.

“For…” he paused, glancing at Ciri. “Reasons. Nothing illegal or untoward, I assure you.” He grinned.

“That is not very reassuring,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow. He leaned forwards to take a sweetbread from the plate, grimacing as the movement strained his aching knee.

“Are you sure--” Jaskier started before Geralt interrupted him.

“ _Not_ an—” Geralt started to reply.

“Invalid,” Jaskier interrupted in turn. His grin softened. “I heard you the first time. I was only going to ask if you were sure you don’t want some juice as well? It’s quite good.”

“Should be, it’s from our orchards,” Geralt answered, a faint blush staining his cheeks at his assumption. “So you were at court?” he asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

“I was.” Jaskier nodded, drinking some juice before continuing. “Several different times, in fact. Bit of a wanderer, me. Takes quite a lot to keep me tethered.” His gaze met Geralt’s boldly, flicking down his body and back up to his eyes, piquing Geralt’s interest.

“Like me,” Ciri said brightly, interrupting the moment.

Jaskier laughed, looking at Ciri fondly. “Like you, little lark.”

“Does that make you the big lark?” Geralt asked, amused despite himself.

“The biggest lark,” Jaskier said proudly, sitting up straighter in his chair and adjusting his pale green coat.

Ciri giggled and a rough laugh escaped Geralt. “Considering the size of larks, that’s not saying very much.”

Jaskier glared playfully at Geralt. “I’ll have you know I’ve seen some rather large larks in my time.”

“Of course you have,” Geralt replied skeptically.

Ciri leaned forward, blue eyes bright with curiosity. “How large, Jaskier?”

As Jaskier spun his tale, Geralt settled into his chair, watching Ciri. She was more animated now than he’d seen her since she arrived on their doorstep, clinging to an injured Mousesack and near fainting with shock and exhaustion, herself. It was heartening to see a hint of her mother’s spirit peeking through. Her father’s determination had gotten her this far. Her own bravery would see to the rest.

Turning his gaze to Jaskier, Geralt watched him for a time. Watched his gray eyes warm whenever he looked at Ciri, growing hot whenever he glanced at Geralt for a moment. Geralt tilted his head, considering the man before him. He was tall and lean, likely from months of travel. His fingers were long and seemed soft at first glance, but Geralt could see calluses on his fingertips. His pale green breeches clung to long, muscled thighs. Geralt shifted slightly as he suddenly thought of those thighs spread wide beneath him. His knee sent up another protest and he grunted at the sudden pain.

Ciri and Jaskier broke off their conversation, looking at him in concern. Ciri stood from her chair, a stubborn tilt to her chin. “I’m going to get some willow bark tea from Cook,” she stated, striding out of the music room before Geralt could ungrit his teeth enough to stop her.

“Perhaps I should go,” Jaskier offered uncertainly, glancing at the door then back at Geralt then down to his propped-up leg.

“No, stay,” Geralt requested, massaging roughly at the aching muscle.

“That won’t help,” Jaskier protested, watching him for a moment. “Here, let me.” He knelt on the floor by Geralt’s leg, brushed aside Geralt’s hands, and started up a gentler massage. Geralt stared at Jaskier as he worked, his head bent over Geralt’s thigh as he concentrated.

Slowly, the muscle relaxed and Geralt himself relaxed back into his chair. “Oh,” he sighed, closing his eyes in relief for a moment.

“Better?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt opened his eyes and met Jaskier’s gaze, seeing the concern written on his face.

“Yes, thank you.”

Jaskier smiled, a softer smile than the brash grin he’d displayed earlier. “You’re welcome.” A hint of mischief entered his eyes. “Sir Geralt.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and growled. “I’m not—”

“A knight. I know,” Jaskier cut in. “But Ciri’s opinion on that matter is the only one that really matters.”

Shaking his head, a reluctant smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. “I’m starting to learn that lesson.”

“Good.” Jaskier patted Geralt’s thigh gently and stood. “The sooner you learn it, the better. Ciri has the _worst_ scream when she doesn’t get her way.”

“Been on the receiving end of it, yourself?” Geralt asked, picking up his glass and smirking around edge when Jaskier groaned and flopped into his chair, long limbs akimbo.

“Gods yes.” He shook his head, but the fondness in his eyes and tone betrayed him. He clapped a hand to his head dramatically. “I thought she was going to bring the whole castle down on us.”

Geralt laughed, louder than he had so far, louder than he had in a long time. When he met Jaskier’s eyes again, he found the other man gazing back at him, eyes wide, a soft smile on his lips, enraptured. _Fuck_. Geralt thought to himself, looking back.


End file.
